


handmade

by bronigiri



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Olympics, Sibling Incest, Smut, Switching, and accidental thirst trap Iwaizumi Hajime, featuring: impromptu vacation dates, stinky tofu onigiri, temporary injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronigiri/pseuds/bronigiri
Summary: At the ripe old age of twenty-seven, Miya Atsumu decides to take up crocheting. Meanwhile, Miya Osamu takes his onigiri business overseas.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Miya Osamu
Comments: 25
Kudos: 279





	handmade

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to Fay and Yin for fuelling my love of Isamu, Susumu, and the amazing concept of crocheting Atsumu.

At the ripe old age of twenty-seven, Miya Atsumu decides to take up crocheting.

Normal people would see it as a relaxing pastime. To Atsumu, no such thing exists. He’s crocheting day in and day out. Every time Osamu gets home from work, no matter what the hour, his twin is sitting there with a ball of yarn and two hooks, fingers working like a man possessed. 

“Why’re you so obsessed with this specifically?” Osamu had asked around day three of Atsumu’s Crocheting Journey. 

“It keeps my fingers in good shape,” Atsumu had said. “So I don’t forget how to toss a ball when I get back on the court.” 

It was a reasonable enough explanation, so Osamu let it be. Better than the first couple weeks after his injury, when all he did was fill Osamu’s recycling bin with unholy amounts of empty beer cans and take depression naps on the couch at three in the afternoon. Six months was the longest Atsumu has ever been ordered to go without volleyball since that fateful sports camp in fourth grade. 

It’s been about a month since then, with five more to go. With no more swelling in the sprained knee, Atsumu can walk again, and has started on some physical therapy under the supervision of Iwaizumi. Osamu can’t remember how Atsumu came across crocheting, but it’s all his brother does these days when he’s not doing wall squats or leg raises. It keeps him occupied and relatively happy, so it’s chill.

Osamu, on the other hand, is growing gradually less and less  _ chill.  _ With the recent decision to have Onigiri Miya expand overseas, his hands are chock full of responsibilities. Figuring out the supply chain was easy back when all the rice was simply imported from Kita’s farm, but there’s a whole  _ process  _ of figuring out how to get it to Taiwan in the cheapest possible way, or evaluating alternative suppliers at the cost of not having his onigiri taste exactly the way he wants it to.

Well— it wouldn’t really be  _ his  _ onigiri, anymore. The Taipei branch will be overseen by their cousins, Miya Isamu and Miya Susumu, who moved to Taiwan a decade or so ago. At thirty-five, Isamu was the older one, having worked in accounting since before he even moved abroad. All that business acumen would be good for the shop, even if he didn’t have culinary experience. Susumu, on the other hand, was twenty-two and fresh out of culinary school with a number of awards under his belt. Though Osamu had yet to taste his cooking himself, Isamu sang his praises day in and day out.

He’s reassured by the fact that it’ll still be “Onigiri Miya,” run by Miyas. He honestly wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise. It was always supposed to be a family-run business, and he still has no intentions of making it a worldwide chain. But he can’t say the idea of people in other countries enjoying his recipes doesn’t entice him. 

Phone sandwiched between his ear and his shoulder while he types on his laptop, Osamu tilts his head over at Atsumu, who’s crocheting on the couch. The whole situation is oddly domestic. Osamu might've laughed if you’d told him ten years ago that he'd be here right now.

“D’you think you’d still eat my onigiri if it wasn’t made with Kita’s rice?” 

Atsumu doesn’t look up. His eyes are trained on the television screen, where he’s watching Oikawa Tooru hit a maddeningly beautiful serve. “What kind of stupid question is that? Of course I’d eat it. You made ‘em for me before we even  _ knew  _ Kita.” 

“Okay, but hypothetically, if you were a  _ customer.  _ How much would the taste of rice matter to you? If all the other ingredients were really fresh?”

_ “Fuck,  _ come  _ on,  _ you could’ve saved that!” 

Atsumu’s not even talking to him— he’s yelling at the libero on San Juan’s team. Osamu doesn’t know when he started  _ rooting for  _ Oikawa, after being defeated on the world stage and sulking home with an Olympic silver medal. But Atsumu’s opinion of Oikawa probably mellowed out after he started being in cahoots with Iwaizumi. You couldn’t talk to one without the other popping up in casual conversation. 

It takes ten seconds of Osamu’s eyes boring holes into Atsumu’s side before Atsumu finally turns, eyes wide and innocent. “Sorry, what’d ya say?” 

“Never mind. I was just tryin’ to figure out the supply of rice and all that. I’ll probably do a taste test with somebody else, since you’ll eat anything I feed you.”

He turns back to his laptop and scrolls through his emails. He’s got an email from Yachi, recommending some graphic design and marketing colleagues based in Taiwan. An email from Kodzuken’s representative about that weird old thing where Kozume Kenma actually wants to be a  _ shareholder _ of his company— Osamu still isn’t sure he didn’t dream that one up. A couple of random strangers asking if the local Onigiri Miya branches are hiring— he’ll let his employees decide. And then the voice of an actual human from his phone finally beckons him, after being put on hold for the past twenty minutes by his bank, and he’s distracted all over again. 

He talks to the customer representative and watches Atsumu crochet, fingers moving with a mad dexterity, swearing once in a while when San Juan’s spikes get blocked. All the while his healing leg is propped up against the coffee table, the very coffee table that Atsumu once pushed Osamu into in the heat of a fight when they were only seven years old. Osamu thinks of himself at seven, and wonders how he would’ve felt about the way his current life is turning out to be. Back then, he would’ve wanted to be the one playing volleyball on international television, his old dreams mirrored in the wistful look currently clouding Atsumu’s eyes.

Osamu hates it when people put their feet up on eating surfaces. But he says nothing. He’s sure Atsumu wants to get off that couch more than anybody else.

* * *

Isamu’s not entirely in favour of shipping Kita’s rice all the way from Hyogo just to make onigiri, since it’s not like Taiwan has a shortage of rice. Susumu, driven by the importance of taste and the nostalgia of sourcing from the home country, is more empathetic of Osamu’s stance. After a few phone calls back and forth, they decide to go with it for the first year or so. After all, if Kodzuken really pitches in, they won’t be short on money during that initial period.

Now that  _ that’s  _ settled, a new problem has emerged. There are a shitton of papers that need to be signed by Osamu personally, as the legal business owner. The earliest plane ticket he can book to Taiwan is next week, and he’ll have to be there for three nights. This isn’t a problem— his employees are more than capable of running the shop without him. The biggest problem is the one lounging on Osamu’s couch with balls of black and white yarn in his lap, needles working at a machine-like pace. 

“‘Tsumu.”

“What?” Yet again, he doesn’t look up. 

“Did ya take your meds today?”

Atsumu swears under his breath. “I forgot. I’ll take ‘em now.” 

Osamu runs a hand over his face. He watches Atsumu walk over to the kitchen and rummage through the cupboard, containers clacking loudly against each other. 

“Bottom shelf.” 

“Thanks.”

He’s gotten  _ too  _ used to Osamu putting the plastic container directly in front of his face, glass of warm water included. It’s hard to believe he’s in his late twenties sometimes. Osamu flashes back to the day he came home to Atsumu drunk and crying on the couch, and his heart lurches as he wonders if his brother will be okay by himself.

“I’m going to Taiwan next weekend,” he says.

“Oh.” Atsumu purses his lips for a minute. “Can I come with?” 

Osamu quirks an eyebrow at him. “You want to come with me to Taiwan? Why?”

“Why not?” Atsumu shrugs. “It’ll be nice to get out of the house. Hajime says I should walk around so my muscles don’t shrivel up and die.” 

Osamu is  _ pretty  _ sure that’s not what ‘Hajime’ said, but he ignores it. “I’ll just be talking business the entire time,” he points out. “You can go sightseeing if you want, but I won’t have time to go with you.”

Atsumu snorts. “What are you, my babysitter? I know how to get around. Google Maps is a better tour guide than you.” 

Well,  _ excuse him  _ for being worried, then. “Alright. I’ll book us two tickets. We leave Friday night and come back Monday afternoon.”

“Sounds good.”

After the tickets are booked, Osamu works until two in the morning, when he finally heads to bed. He’s surprised to see that Atsumu is still awake, scrolling on his phone with the nightlight on. They haven’t had much time to themselves lately. Even before the injury, with both their busy schedules, they didn’t have much time to go on vacation. Osamu figures he’ll try to push the meetings to the first few days so they can have the last one free to spend with just each other. 

But there’s no reason he can’t indulge  _ now.  _ Atsumu has a thing for sleeping shirtless, and the way he sits makes no secret of the toned muscles of his abs. The black knee brace draws attention to the little mark Osamu had bitten into his inner thigh two days prior. Desire throbs through Osamu’s veins and wipes away his exhaustion.

“Can I ride you?”

“Huh?” Atsumu blinks up at him, a slight flush creeping over his cheeks. “Yeah, sure.” He tosses his phone onto the nightstand and sits upright.

It’s the position that’s easiest on Atsumu’s knees. All they have to do is prop a few pillows behind his back, and then Osamu clambers on top of him and goes to town. It’s kind of hot like this, grinding his hips at whatever pace he pleases, watching the myriad of expressions— impatience, desire,  _ hunger—  _ manifest on Atsumu’s face as he realizes he can’t do much but sit there and  _ take  _ it. Osamu likes alternating between _fast_ and _slow,_ edging him for however long he wants. Likes wrenching the orgasm out of Atsumu when he least expects, hearing his name fall from Atsumu’s lips like a prayer. 

“‘Samu, I swear to god,” Atsumu pants later, when they’re a boneless and breathless tangle of limbs. “When this is over I’m gonna fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk.”

“Hm,” says Osamu. “Lookin’ forward to it.” 

* * *

The night before their flight, Osamu comes home to see Iwaizumi Hajime bent over his twin brother. 

“Does it hurt?” 

There’s a little droplet of sweat beading on Atsumu’s forehead as he lets out a moan. “N-no, keep going.” 

Iwaizumi keeps going, pushing lightly against his back as Atsumu reaches forward to touch his toes. After a while he lets go and Atsumu heaves out a long sigh of relief.

Osamu clears his throat.

“Hey ‘Samu.” Atsumu gives him a shaky smile, blush tinting his cheeks.

“Hey, Miya-san.” Iwaizumi gives a half-wave. His sleeves are rolled up to his shoulders, making no secret of his arm muscles. “Good to see you.”

_ Can’t say the same for you,  _ Osamu thinks bitterly. As if to prove his point, Iwaizumi then clambers on top of Atsumu, who lies back with knees bent and lets Iwaizumi grip and twist his upper thigh with strong, sturdy hands. 

Osamu turns away and makes himself a cup of coffee to wash away the unpleasant tingling sensation at the nape of his neck. He retreats to their shared bedroom to do work on his laptop, but even then he’s unable to escape the loud and nearly pornographic moan Atsumu lets out. 

When they finish their unnecessarily intimate physical therapy session and Iwaizumi finally goes home, Atsumu appears at the entrance of their bedroom.

“I asked Hajime-chan about places to go in Taiwan and he drew up a list. Apparently he’s been there with Oikawa a buncha times. The night markets have really good food.”

_ Hajime-chan.  _ “That sounds good. We can hit one up when we get there. Are you done packing?”

“Huh? I thought we were sharin’ a suitcase.”

“Yeah. I left half of it empty for your shit. You still have to  _ pack it yourself.” _

“Oh, okay. I’ll go do that.”

Osamu is this close to slamming his head on his desk. This is nothing new, he tells himself. His brother is a single-celled organism that has somehow subsisted for twenty-seven years with nothing but volleyball in his brain. He sits back and watches Atsumu rummage around the room. 

“How’s the knee?”

“Better,” says Atsumu. “Lots better. Hajime-chan says I’ve been eating well, so I’ll probably heal up real fast.”

All thanks to none other than Osamu himself. If Atsumu were left to his own devices, he’d probably call peanut butter and tequila a healthy meal. “He doesn’t know about all the alcohol you chugged in week one, does he?”

“What Hajime-chan doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Osamu bristles. “Would you stop  _ calling  _ him that?”

Atsumu’s facial expression shifts quickly from annoyance into understanding. “Oh? Are you  _ jealous?”  _ Atsumu bats his lashes, coy smile tugging at his lips. He leans over Osamu in his chair, and tilts his chin up with a devilish finger. “Do you want me to call you Osamu-chan?”

Osamu shudders. “God no. That’s just creepy.” 

“Hm.” Atsumu pauses thoughtfully. “Want me to suck your dick, then?”

“Not now. I’m supposed to get a phone call any minute now.” 

“Mmh.” Atsumu licks his lips. Osamu should’ve known that wouldn’t be a deterrent. “That’s okay. I’ll be quiet.”

Atsumu grabs a pillow to sit on underneath the desk so he doesn’t have to kneel, and unzips Osamu’s pants before he can get a word in otherwise. The phone rings as soon as Atsumu gets his mouth around his dick, because the universe just hates him like that. It’s not Isamu or Susumu, just somebody from the bank again. Osamu wraps up the call as fast as he can, trying desperately to sound like he’s not going  _ insane  _ with Atsumu’s pretty lips suckling teasingly at his head, tongue dragging expertly along the sensitive underside of his cock. As soon as the call’s over he throws his phone across the room and fucks Atsumu’s mouth until he comes so hard he sees stars. 

* * *

They fly economy class, because Atsumu’s not getting paid anymore and most of Osamu’s income is going to the overseas expansion. It’s a bit crowded, being two guys who are six feet tall smushed against each other in these seats. The heat of Atsumu’s thigh radiates through their layers of clothing against his skin. Osamu briefly contemplates joining the mile high club before remembering how disgusting airplane lavatories are. Nope, not worth it.

The Taipei air is thicker and more humid than the air in Osaka. All Osamu has to do is breathe in to know that he’s in a different country on foreign land. He’s never been here before, but on the drive to the hotel from the airport he decides he kind of likes it. The architecture isn’t too different from some parts of Japan, and it feels homey. 

He leaves the hotel at the crack of dawn with Atsumu still snoring in the bed next to him. Isamu and Susumu greet him at the shop with warm hugs, and take him around, showing him the location, the shopping district conveniently around the block, and how close it is to the train station. 

Isamu and Susumu work well together. Isamu’s experience in business complements Susumu’s passion for food. Over the next few days, Isamu teaches Osamu a bunch of Excel tips and tricks that make his life infinitely easier. And after watching Susumu work, Osamu decides that he likes the way Susumu prepares food. There’s this intense wrinkle between his brow, like every dish he makes is going to be fed to the Emperor. It's reminiscent of Atsumu back in high school, _tap-tap-tapping_ the ball against the gymnasium wall and setting his fingers raw. Osamu is almost worried that he’ll overwork himself, but Isamu responds that _he just_ _ looks like that when he cooks, he’ll be fine.  _ When Osamu does a taste test, he confirms that Susumu makes onigiri almost exactly the way Osamu would. It really does help to keep the business in the family.

Sometimes Osamu thinks about how much easier his job could be if Atsumu had an inkling of interest in business. They could be pretty formidable. With Atsumu’s dedication to giving one hundred and twenty percent in everything he does, Osamu wouldn’t have to worry about bureaucratic shit, and he could focus on being in the kitchen as much as possible. But he knows it’s never going to happen. It’s unfair to expect the two of them to follow the same path just because they started out in the same place. 

On the last night before their flight back home, he leaves the shop at seven p.m. and phones up Atsumu. 

“Where’d you go today?” 

“Oh, I stayed in the hotel.”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to go to the night market?”

Atsumu makes a noise. “It’s boring if you’re not there.” 

Osamu’s heart kicks in his chest. “So what’d you do?”

“... I watched volleyball.” 

Osamu lets out a long, long sigh. “Okay. That’s it. We’re going to the night market. Get ready, I’ll pick you up in fifteen.”

Fifteen minutes later, Atsumu’s hair is gelled back in his usual faux-messy style, and he’s wearing clothes that actually look nice, although he looks good in everything. They get a taxi to avoid being jostled on public transit and worsening Atsumu’s injury. When they pull up to the nearest night market, it’s loud and bustling with noise, bright lanterns and neon signs illuminating the night sky.

Osamu has managed to avoid crowds in his three days here, only ducking in and out of the shop and the occasional convenience store. But here, he feels a little out of his depth. He doesn’t understand a word of the chatter that’s being thrown around. A salesperson calls out loudly to him and Atsumu, her face kind and friendly, but Osamu has no idea what’s being said. The smell of good food wafts into his nose, but he’s got no idea how to order.

He wishes he’d thought to bring Isamu and Susumu. He wonders why he let them talk him into this in the first place. He doesn’t know the first thing about anybody here. What kinds of flavours could catch their attention? What was the type of atmosphere they looked for in a restaurant? Could he really make up for a higher than average price point with the sole promise of a “handmade recipe” that didn’t necessarily have cultural ties to this country?

“‘Samu.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re spiralling.” Atsumu grabs him by the hand. “C’mon, let’s go to that stand over there. I’ve always wanted to try stinky tofu.” 

Atsumu orders for them in broken Mandarin that he probably picked up from playing matches internationally. The lady gives them the second order for free, gesturing to their faces. Probably something about them being good-looking twins. They bite into their food and chew thoughtfully. Atsumu’s verdict is that it’s too spicy. Osamu, on the other hand, loves it. He wonders how stinky tofu onigiri would taste, and files it away to experiment with later.

They buy something from every stand they come across. Oyster egg pancakes. Popcorn chicken. Pork blood rice cakes— surely he can make that taste good in an onigiri, too. They eat until their stomachs burst, and then after that they shop for little trinkets. Bootleg Naruto phone charms made with shitty plastic, looking like Sasuke’s eyes are going to fall out. Two fuzzy cross-shoulder bags in the shape of volleyballs that neither of them would be caught dead wearing on a day other than today. 

It’s a good night. It’s a great night, made even better by the comfort of the fresh-smelling queen bed that they collapse on once they get back to the hotel.

“How’s the knee?” Osamu asks, smiling up at the ceiling. 

“Good,” says Atsumu, with a smile of his own.

“Great,” says Osamu. “Wanna fuck?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Osamu fucks Atsumu this time, gentle and careful as he hooks Atsumu’s knees over his shoulders, making sure not to strain him. He fingers Atsumu open until Atsumu is squirming and trembling beneath him, bottom lip bitten pink between his teeth, and he’s gorgeous and pliant as Osamu pushes into him and lets himself drown in the pleasure.

Osamu will never tire of the way their bodies slot perfectly together, like they were made for each other. Surely, as brothers, they were never intended to fit against each other in this way. But they were Atsumu and Osamu, and so they spat in the face of the gods and fell in love as aggressively as they did everything else.

It’s not long before they both come. All Osamu has to do is get a hand around Atsumu’s cock and mouth his name into the spot just below his earlobe, and Atsumu comes hard like the flip of a switch. Osamu pushes into him, fucking him at a steady pace through his orgasm, and when Atsumu takes his hand in his own, squeezes it and says “‘Samu,” one word bearing the weight of a thousand, Osamu too topples over the edge.

They shower and get cleaned up, and then Osamu helps Atsumu stretch out his leg, just in case. With his face inches away from Atsumu’s fluffed-up, still-wet hair, he lets his hands roam on freshly washed skin, with no ulterior motive past simple intimacy. As he listens to Atsumu recount his favourite flavours of the day, he watches the familiar spark in Atsumu's eye come to life, and falls in love all over again.

* * *

The change of scenery is good for Atsumu. For the first few days after they’re back, he wakes up on time, does all his stretches, and even watches things other than volleyball. 

Several days later, Osamu comes home in the evening to find three members of the MSBY Black Jackals taking up all the space in the living room. Sakusa sitting primly, legs crossed, on a separate foldable chair that definitely wasn’t there before— Bokuto perched on the back of the couch like an oversized bird— and Hinata lying on the floor with his legs up on the armrest. (He’d rejoined the team a few days after Atsumu had gotten injured— it was a sore subject.) Surprisingly, Atsumu is the only person who’s actually sitting properly on the couch.

Osamu thought Atsumu had one brain cell. But if you put him in a room with these three, the number of brain cells wouldn't even increase. The entire team has got absolutely nothing but volleyball on their brains. Atsumu might, in fact, be the sanest one of all.

“Hey hey hey, Samu-samu!” Bokuto greets him with too many repeating words for the beginning of a conversation. Osamu can feel a headache coming on. “How was the honeymoon?” Ah, yes. The headache worsens.

“Shhhh,” Hinata says loudly. “Omi-san doesn’t know!”

Atsumu glares. “Well  _ thanks,  _ Bokkun. He sure as hell does now.”

“If it was supposed to be a secret, it wasn't very well-kept.” Sakusa looks like he wants to crawl into a hole and never emerge. “Never mind that. I’m not interested in discussing Miya’s sex life.”

“Yeah, neither am I,” Atsumu grumbles under his breath.

“I brought you guys a new flavour,” Osamu interrupts, pointedly ignoring their earlier comments. He sets a box of stinky tofu onigiri on the coffee table. “Whipped it up at the shop earlier. Give it a try, let me know if you like it. The not-spicy one is for Atsumu, so leave that one alone. And Sakusa, the chazuke's for you.”

That gets him a series of enthusiastic whoops from Hinata and Bokuto, while Sakusa adjusts his mask in a not-so-subtle attempt to hide the excitement in his previously lifeless eyes. Fifteen minutes later, the verdict is tied at one point for and one point against the stinky tofu onigiri— Hinata adores it, while Bokuto claims it smells like Akaashi’s cat after it’s gone too long without a bath. Well, whatever. Osamu knows he can’t please everyone. None of their opinions really matter, anyway, in the face of Atsumu eating the onigiri Osamu made for him, holding it in two hands, fingers delicately raised like it’s something precious. The smile that spreads like sunlight across his face as he takes his first nibble, and then devours it like he can’t get enough.

They talk about all that Atsumu’s been missing at practice, and Osamu can  _ feel  _ his twin’s desire to crawl out of his skin. When the Jackals leave a couple hours later, it’s as if all the positive energy Atsumu brought back from Taiwan has left with them. Well, it’s probably inevitable when Atsumu’s social circle consists solely of volleyball players. Atsumu resumes his crocheting with a somber look on his face, like it’s a self-inflicted punishment, like the only possible life outside of volleyball is a bottomless pit of misery. 

Lit by the dim light of the television, sitting side by side with a still-crocheting Atsumu on the couch, Osamu finally asks the question that’s been sitting at the tip of his tongue. 

“What the hell are you even making with all that yarn?”

Atsumu scowls. “I’m not telling you.” 

“Fine. See if I care.”

Osamu works until he falls asleep on the couch that night. He wakes up in the morning to harsh sunlight cutting across his eyes, and a warm blanket that was draped over him in his sleep.

* * *

The days pass in a blur. The Taipei branch hires some new faces and sends him market research reports that make him cross-eyed. Kozume Kenma writes Onigiri Miya a check with a surprising amount of zeros in it. In return, he asks for a three percent equity and absolutely no decision-making authority because  _ it’s way too much work.  _ Iwaizumi comes and goes, gets varying degrees of handsy with Atsumu, and Osamu invests in noise-cancelling AirPods. 

The whirr of the vacuum fills the room as Osamu, once again, takes care of the chores Atsumu’s been neglecting in favour of crocheting like a madman.

“Feet up.”

Atsumu doesn’t respond, eyes fixated on the television screen.

“I said,  _ feet up.” _

Atsumu props his feet up on the coffee table, still not taking his eyes off the screen, and Osamu vacuums under them.

He’s not badly injured enough that he can’t  _ vacuum.  _ Osamu contemplates telling him to get up off his ass and help out with the household chores for once. He thinks of how his mom was always flipping out at their dad for watching baseball without lifting a finger to help her vacuum. And then he thinks about how eerily similar they’ve become to their parents. Which is absolutely  _ not  _ a train of thought he wants to go down, now or ever. 

Okay, whatever. Atsumu won’t vacuum then. That’s fine. Except it’s not. Because he doesn’t wash the dishes after he eats dinner. Or replace the toilet paper when they run out. Osamu, already run ragged by everything at work, is entirely too fed up with the current situation. Especially when he knows it’s not because Atsumu is  _ busy.  _ Even back when he was at practice every day, he’d at least do the basics. It’s just that now, without a job or anything constructive to do, there’s no room in Atsumu’s brain for anything other than being miserable. 

“Could ya take out the trash?” Osamu asks later that night. “I’m waiting for a phone call.”

“I’m busy.”

“You’re just filing your nails. That can wait.” 

Atsumu doesn’t respond. Just  _ scritch-scratches _ away at his nails with the nail filer. Perfecting his fingers for the phantom of a ball he won't be setting. 

Osamu takes out the trash, very much wishing he could toss Atsumu’s shitty attitude in a bag and throw it out the door.

Two months down. Only four more to go.

* * *

Inevitably at some point, Atsumu’s hand cramps up from crocheting too much. He sits miserably on that same old couch, resting his tired hand on a cold can of beer.

“If you don’t want to put your hands out of commission too,” says Osamu, “you’d better stop.” 

Osamu sees a muscle clench in Atsumu’s jaw. “I’m not going to hurt my hand! It’s just a cramp. I’ll wait it out and keep going.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “You ever heard of this thing called  _ moderation? _ It’s nice. You should try it sometime.” 

“Says you,” Atsumu tosses back. “Every time we eat together you shovel food into yer mouth like a pig.” 

“Food is  _ good for you!  _ How’s arts and crafts gonna fill you up?”

“Hey!” Atsumu snaps. “I resent that. Art is a basic human need.”

“Name five artists then.”

“Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello, Raphael.”

“... And?”

“... Splinter.” 

Osamu snorts. “Those are the  _ ninja turtles,  _ you shit-for-brains.” 

Atsumu huffs and opens the can of beer. His hand twitches, but he manages it, and takes a swig.

“You can move your hand now, yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay, good. You should do somethin’ else for a change. Come here and help me with dinner.” Osamu opens the fridge and begins taking out the ingredients. He’s in the mood for curry— do they have enough potatoes? There are definitely more than enough carrots.

When he looks back over his shoulder, the look in Atsumu’s eye has turned unjustifiably angry. “Why should I?” 

Osamu bristles, slamming down the bag of carrots with perhaps excessive force. “The fuck do you mean,  _ why should I?  _ You live here too. I work sixty hours a week and come back and cook for you and you don’t even lift a finger. How’s that fair?” 

Atsumu crosses his arms. “I’m just sayin’, why should I? Food is your thing. Volleyball is mine. I didn’t make you go pro with me, so why should I cook with you just ‘cause you told me to?”

Osamu can physically feel himself reaching his breaking point. It's not pleasant. “Atsumu. That was ten years ago. What the hell is wrong with you today?”

Atsumu shoots up off the couch. “Me? What the hell’s wrong with  _ you?  _ All you’ve done as soon as you got home is snap at me.”

Osamu walks around the kitchen counter to face him, not backing down. “I wouldn’t have to if you acted like a fucking adult. If I wanted to take care of a five-year-old kid, then I would’ve  _ had  _ one by now.”

Hurt flickers across Atsumu’s face. For a moment, all Osamu feels is a familiar, vindictive joy. But the hurt doesn’t disappear from Atsumu’s face, only morphs into a helpless kind of anger, and Osamu remembers what he’s learned time and time again— that there is no petty victory that is worth this look on Atsumu’s face.

“Fine, then.” Atsumu’s voice is shot through with ice. “If you hate being stuck with me that much, then I’ll just get out.” 

Osamu’s throat is dry as he watches Atsumu stride across the room, walk out the door, and slam it shut. The sound rings through the apartment they’ve called home for years. 

He knows Atsumu will come back. He always does. He knows that he didn’t do anything  _ wrong.  _ Maybe he shouldn’t have snapped. He knows how devastating it is to lose something so important to you. He knows more than anyone that what Atsumu feels about volleyball goes beyond pure  _ passion. _ It’s what drives him. It’s the reason he lives and breathes. And if somebody took Onigiri Miya away from Osamu for six months, he’d go a little stir-crazy too. But Osamu is  _ trying,  _ damn it— he’s  _ trying so hard  _ to be there for Atsumu, who won’t open up and talk about what’s bothering him. Who won’t put in any effort at all to live his current life, eyes too focused on the past to look ahead.

Why is it that even now, Osamu has to be the one to compromise? Born a mere seven minutes later, he’s always been the one running after Atsumu, picking up his slack. Nobody ever said life was fair, least of all whatever deity dumped Osamu into this role. Nobody said it wouldn’t be tough, or that it wouldn’t be painful. Or that Osamu doesn’t have the right to feel exhausted to the bone, when the truth is that he feels Atsumu’s pain as deeply as if it were his own. But even so, he’ll bite back his grievances and say  _ fuck it all.  _ He’ll do it a hundred times over if it means that he gets to keep Atsumu by his side. 

He picks up his phone and calls Atsumu, but all he gets is the busy signal.

He supposes there’s nothing more he can do other than wait. 

* * *

A couple hours later Atsumu comes back, creaking the door open quietly. When Osamu looks up, his eyes are rimmed with red. Osamu’s heart lurches to his stomach.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey,” Atsumu says with a tense half-smile. He runs a hand through his hair and makes his way to their bedroom. Osamu follows. 

“Sorry for storming out. I’m just here to, uh, pack my stuff. I gave Hajime a call. He says I can crash on his couch for a few days. You know, while I get my shit together.” 

Osamu’s throat goes dry as Atsumu starts throwing clothes into a suitcase. The same one they brought to Taiwan. 

“That’s my suitcase," Osamu forces out.

“Just let me borrow it!" Atsumu huffs. "Jeez. You’re so stingy. My meds are on the bottom shelf, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I'll go grab them.” 

As Atsumu picks up the mess of clothes thrown on the floor, Osamu can see with more clarity the lumpy object that the clothes had been covering. It's a basket full of what appears to be crocheted onigiri. He leans down and picks one up, turning it over in his hand.

“Is this what you were making all this time? Onigiri?”

“Ah— yeah. Right. Those.” 

Atsumu’s face is a cute shade of pink. Osamu would blush, too, if he wasn’t so  _ sad  _ all of a sudden. He clears his throat. “Are ya gonna bring these with you? Keep making more for your collection?” 

“Nah. I’m takin’ a break from crocheting. And these were supposed to be for you, anyway.”

Osamu goes still. He furrows his brows in confusion. “For me?” 

Atsumu flushes a bright shade of red. “I just thought, well. It’s gotta be hard starting a new branch in a new country. And I know you’re torn up about Onigiri Miya not bein’ so  _ personal  _ anymore. So I thought you could give these away at the grand opening and draw in some customers. You can tell ‘em I made these by hand if that helps. Brotherly love, people eat that shit up.”

Osamu just stares. And stares. There are dozens and dozens of onigiri dolls in there. He picks one up, and then another. They’re a little bit lumpy and misshapen, but the care that went into them is immense. They’ve even got different coloured toppings. There are at least five different kinds in the box just from what Osamu can see.

“How many are there?”

“Just eighty-eight. I was gonna tell you when I hit a hundred.” 

When Osamu falls silent again, Atsumu scratches the back of his neck, ducking his head in embarrassment. “I know they’re not perfect, alright? But they’re made with  _ love!  _ That’s what counts. Besides, people dig that shit, right? Handmade, one-of-a-kind—” 

Osamu pulls Atsumu into his arms, holding him tight. The tears spring to his eyes before he can tell them to go away. He thinks of the way Atsumu always holds his onigiri with two hands, like he’s holding something precious— he thinks of, _‘Samu, you’re spiralling,_ and a hand taking his own, grounding him— thinks of the way Atsumu had draped a blanket over him as he slept— and the way that everything they do, they do together. The pain, the pleasure, all of it.

It works both ways. Just as Atsumu wears the number  _ eleven _ on the world’s stage, it’s called Onigiri Miya and not Onigiri Osamu for a reason. They complete each other. There would be no Osamu without Atsumu, and no Atsumu without Osamu.

“Please don’t go,” Osamu cries into Atsumu’s shoulder. “Stay here with me, ‘Tsumu. I need you. We’ll get through it together. Just don’t go. Please.” 

The tenseness of Atsumu’s shoulders dissipates, as he goes slack in Osamu’s arms, and wraps his arms around Osamu, too. 

“I don’t want to go,” says Atsumu. “I just— it  _ sucks,  _ ‘Samu. Everything sucks. You’re the only thing I’ve got. I don’t want to push you away too.” 

“You couldn’t do that if you tried,” says Osamu.

“I'm sorry for being an asshole.”

“It’s okay. I’m an asshole, too.”

“It’s hard.” Atsumu sniffles. “I dunno what to do anymore, these days. I don’t know why I get up in the morning. Every day feels like a chore. I just want to play volleyball again.” 

“I know,” says Osamu. “It’s okay to be sad. You can be mad. You can fuck up. But you’ve got to give me room to do all that, too. Just because I’m busy and I’m tired doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you.” 

Atsumu nuzzles his face into the crook of Osamu’s neck, and sniffles again. “You’re gonna make it. I know you will. They’re gonna love you in Taiwan. Have you ever met anybody who didn’t love your food?” 

Osamu’s chest feels full to bursting. “You’re gonna make it too, ‘Tsumu. You’ll be back on the court in no time. We’re gonna be okay. Both of us.”

“Yeah.” 

He squeezes Atsumu against him, and Atsumu squeezes back. When they pull apart it’s to smile shakily at each other. 

“Did ya have dinner yet?” 

Atsumu’s stomach growls in response. The tips of his ears go red.

“I’ll make curry. Go rest.”

“No way! I wanna help.” He’s bouncing eagerly up and down on his toes. It’s cute.

“Sure, but if you burn down the kitchen, you’re payin’ for the repairs.”

“Oh,  _ fuck  _ you!”

Atsumu chases him all the way to the kitchen, but they’re both smiling the whole way there.

* * *

(“Thank God you didn’t move in with Iwaizumi.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. That’s the point. He’s the perfect man.” 

“Yeah, but he’s not _you_.” 

“Not that I’m not flattered. But I have eyes, ‘Tsumu. There’s no tellin’ what you’ll do in a tight space with him.”

“Do you know how many people on our team had sex with him at the Olympic Village? If I didn’t fuck him then, I definitely won’t fuck him now.”

“...How many?” 

“I don’t know! I spent the entire time taking cold showers and jerking off with your old t-shirt.” 

“Aw. I’m sorry.”

“You’d  _ better be.” _ )

* * *

The grand opening rolls around before they know it, and the two of them book another round-trip flight to Taiwan. A week and a half this time, so they can hit up the tourist spots they missed, and maybe go back to that night market for another helping of stinky tofu. Or three. Or ten— who’s counting?

Osamu does the honours of cutting the ribbon in front of the new Onigiri Miya store. There’s a small crowd gathered around them, including a local news reporter. The face that beams the brightest, though, is Atsumu’s. 

They spend the first day together, with Osamu and Susumu working behind the counter, and Isamu and Atsumu taking orders. As promised, the first one hundred orders get a free onigiri doll. A group of customers ask if there are plans to bring them back in stock, which makes Atsumu’s face go pale as he turns back to Osamu. His eyes scream  _ god help me if I ever have to crochet one hundred dolls ever again.  _ Osamu just laughs to himself. Sure, Atsumu might pursue everything he tries with a relentless drive, but there’s nothing that can replace volleyball. And Osamu wouldn’t have it any other way.

After they close up shop, the four Miyas share a hearty drink in celebration of their success. 

“To us,” says Isamu, raising his glass.

“To us,” they repeat in unison, clinking their beers together.

They talk about how their day went. How the stinky tofu onigiri was surprisingly a hit, and how the neighbourhood grannies have already taken a liking to the shop— it appears  _ that, _ at least, is something they have in common with the original branch. They video chat with Kita and thank him for the rice, and Atsumu drops the bomb that he’ll be back with the Jackals sooner than expected, with his recovery time shortened from six months to five. Osamu ruffles his hair joyously and just barely refrains from kissing him silly in front of their other family members. And then sends Iwaizumi a silent apology for ever doubting him. 

Pleasantly buzzed from the alcohol, they hail a taxi and head back to their hotel. They trip over one another’s feet on their way to the bed, giggling the whole way there only to find that they’re too tired to do anything but make out like teenagers. It’s nice like this, too, not so much kissing as sharing air, legs entangled so that they can’t quite tell where one ends and the other begins.

It feels too good to be true. Maybe it is. Maybe life is just a collection of inevitable ups and downs, and the only constant is the head of blond hair nuzzling into his neck and tickling his chin until he laughs. Maybe tomorrow they’ll fight again. Maybe the day after, they’ll kiss and make up. But for now, all that Osamu needs is right here, a familiar body in a foreign bed, and somebody to kiss good night every day for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](twitter.com/bronigiri)


End file.
